


give a little time to me (or burn this out)

by serein



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Bastian leaves, Bayern munich, FC Bayern München, Friendship, Goodbye, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Transfers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 18:23:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4315566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serein/pseuds/serein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short story about goodbye. Based upon Bastian's leaving of FC Bayern München for Manchester United.</p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <br/>
    <a href="http://imgur.com/v1ZtOY7"></a>
    <br/>
    <img/>
    <br/>
  </p>
</div>(or where there is a sidewalk, and two hearts)
            </blockquote>





	give a little time to me (or burn this out)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Ed Sheeran's beautiful ["Give Me Love"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FOjdXSrtUxA). Listen to it.

* * *

_Give a little time to me or burn this out,_  
_We'll play hide and seek to turn this around,_  
_All I want is the taste that your lips allow,_  
_My, my, my, my, oh give me love,_  
-Ed Sheeran, Give Me Love

"But why?"

His heart was broken, and he could not understand why it had to be so.

He had been so good - so honest - so patient - so prepared.

Why did he deserve this now?

Why did he deserve to feel pain and separation?

Why did he deserve to get handed back to him what he had worked for - what he had hoped for - what he had _dreamed_ for?

"I'm sorry, Thomas."

His hands flew threw his hair, rapid, angry fingers. Fingers that acted as if moving faster across the rumpled, dark mess of his hair would change everything back to what it was like before? Fingers that acted as if the fate of the broken world that had been opened up right at his heels rested upon the singular action of pulling those fingers through the clumps of his short, brown locks. Fingers that acted as if there was nothing in the world but pain, and hurt, and goodbye. 

"It isn't fair."

Nothing is fair, his eyes read, as they call out - call out beyond Bastian, beyond the black, comforting pavement, beyond the trees and their sinewy limbs, beyond the sterile, quiet skies, searching for something more, something that could make him feel loved again.

"No, it's not."

Here he was: stuck the brutal phase of goodbye, of recognizing the end, of recognizing that things would not continue the way they did.

And it wasn't fair.

It was heartbreaking, and there was nothing he could do about it, besides stand there on the corner of an empty street with nothing but the wind and the birds and the grey, empty clouds and Bastian.

"Why are you doing this right now?"

He watches as Bastian fumbles with the words - as Bastian fumbles with sculpting something soft and something _comforting_ to Thomas. He watches as Bastian twirls his pointer fingers together; watches as Bastian pokes his tongue into his left cheek like he always does when he's thinking; watches as Bastian hunches slightly; watches as Bastian struggles to tell him why he is saying goodbye - why this is the end - why all things must die, why all things must close the curtains.

"Because...it is better for my career."

He closes his eyes, and hears Bastian exhale a long, tired, worried breath, a breath that was a rhapsody of hurt and apology and rejection and a tad bit of goldenrod hope.

"Don't tell me that."

He turns away, his jacket suddenly feeling insufficient.  
Why couldn't Bastian just understand that this was about _them_?

About Bastian wrapping his warm arms around Thomas, and Thomas kissing him quietly on the cheek?

About Bastian pulling an extra scarf around Thomas when he was cold and Thomas lending him a pair of pale white socks to wear and Bastian fixing Thomas' socks in the early morning so that he wore them properly to the pitch but then having them being undone by Thomas by midmorning?

About watching Woody Allen's entire film catalogue together on days where life kind of just made a commandment to watch Woody Allen movies and cry into cotton blue blankets and drink scathingly hot cocoa with little, perfect marshmallows floating on its surface?

About Bastian teaching Thomas what it meant to love, what it meant to feel, what it meant to live?

About Philipp buying Bastian a pint at the bar three blocks away and talking the night away while Thomas and Manuel went to the pitch to practice?

About the time that Thomas had first fallen in love with the man who had just stopped loving a Polish man who had broken his heart twenty times over?

About that time Thomas had first set eyes on the blond? About that time that the blond had first set eyes on Thomas?

About that first time that their lips had pressed together - that lit, warm night by the sparkling river, by the white cement bridge, by the archaic streetlamps? That night that he had felt like there was something more to his existence than football, something more than money and pride and family. That night that he had understood that perhaps there was something tangible, something visceral, something _real_ in his relationship with this handsome, caring man.

"I'm sorry."

He tries to look away from Bastian's gaze, but finds his morale dissolving by the second, the entropy of his desire eating at his conscience at his will.

"No, you're not."

The words are daggers; daggers that Thomas regrets; daggers that Thomas wish had never happened, had never flown like birds across the dark canvases of night.

"I am, Thomas, and you have to believe me."

It is hard to believe him.

"Do I have to?"

No.

"Yes."

Please don't leave me.

"Why?"

Because I love you.

"Because if you love me, you have to believe me."

I love you.

"If you loved me, you would stay."

Please, stay.

"I can't."

You can't?

"You can't just give me some time with you?"

Of course you can.

"I have to leave tomorrow."

I can't let you leave tomorrow.

"Please?"

And thank you.

"I'm sorry."

Stop saying that.

"It's okay."

It's not okay. His tears roll down, melancholy, lonely, quiet, surefire bullets of loss and end.

"It'll be okay. You can call me anytime, Thomas. I'll just be in England. It won't change."

It doesn't work that way, though. Nothing works that way.

"Don't leave me."

God, don't leave me.

"I won't leave you. I'll just be in England. It's not too bad."

Easy for you to say.

"You and I both know that nothing is that perfect."

All things must fall to ruin.

Why did this - this beautiful, innocent, pure thing - this beacon of light and warmth and tender, gentle love - have to fade to black now?

And why couldn't Bastian just admit that this was the end?

That this was the end of something he had wished he would keep in his tight little fist for the rest of his life, for the end of time?

"We were perfect."

Not anymore.

"Then why are you leaving?"

Another exhaled breath from Bastian. This time it tastes like guilt and hurt.

"Because it is what I need."

What you need?

"What about what I need?"

His monochromatic sneakers are dirtied, grass stains running up the edges of the white lining. Sneakers that were picked out two years ago by Bastian. Sneakers that had brought him victory and happiness. Sneakers that had made lives happier and sadder. Sneakers that had broken and mended hearts, broken and mended souls. Sneakers that had understood when not to move and when to run so hard that the wind whipped at his face, cold air rushing down into his desperate lungs. Sneakers that had felt and felt and felt.

"What do you need?"

What do Bastian think he needs?

"I need you to love me."

There. He said it. 'Love.'

"I will always love you, Thomas."

He tries not to turn around and start running for the horizon, running from Bastian and his goodbye, running from his hurt and his pain, running from all that he had cared about for the last five years, running from the love that was about to be broken unevenly into two pieces.

"But not enough to stay."

He hates himself when he says it, because he knows that Bastian will hate him for saying it as well.

"I - I'm sorry."

He watches as Bastian shakes his head, and turns away from him, walking slowly down the paved sidewalk, walking away from him, walking away from all that Bastian had known for ten years, walking into a new, open plain of Bastian's life, walking into something that was mysterious and alluring and confusing but exhilarating all the same.

"Bastian?"

Bastian stops in his tracks, looking over his shoulder at Thomas.

"Yeah?"

"Can I have one more kiss?"

And then he is half jogging, half running towards the blond, moving ungracefully along the empty sidewalk to the man he had loved with all his heart, and now he had to say goodbye to, no matter how hurtful or unfair or stupid it was.

And then his lips are on Bastian's, heavy and meaningful. The kiss is deep and desperate, loving and firm, hopeful and needy.

He can only look down when Bastian pulls away, restraining himself from the onslaughter of tears.

"I love you, Mülli."

"I...love you, too, Schweini."

"Goodbye, then?"

"I - I guess so."

The blond smiles at him, and leans in to plant a chaste, light kiss on his cheek. Then Bastian turns away to keep walking, and Thomas watches Bastian turn the corner and disappear from sight.

To no one in particular, he shakes his head and starts walking in the opposite direction, his hands in his blue khaki pockets, his sneakers slapping lightly against the pavement, his eyes looking for a future he could not determine, his head and his heart wrapped up together in one bittersweet, hopeful bundle of love and goodbye.

**Author's Note:**

> Leon's in France, and I felt like a tribute to Bastian was necessary in light of his upcoming departure. I would have done Schweinski, but Lukas doesn't belong to Bayern, so there isn't much of a thing going on there. Lahmsteiger might have been a thing given a particular bakery fic I read but I backed out of it.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this. Kudos are always appreciated and comments are loved.
> 
> Thank you.  
> -Max


End file.
